


Day Off

by The_Cool_Aunt



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 07:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3719902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actors Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have an unexpected day off. The author makes no apologies—except for the state of the duvet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caravan

“Hang on a sec.”  
  
John stepped back from the caravan’s door and waited. Finally, it swung open.  
  
“Hey,” Sherlock greeted him, stepping back so John could enter. Like John, Sherlock was dressed in jeans, but rather than a striped long-sleeved t-shirt, he wore an old button-down shirt. His feet were bare.  
  
Sherlock immediately slung himself down in a desk chair, waving his hand at the sofa. John shucked his light jacket, tossing it over the arm of the sofa, and sat. “Have they decided yet?”  
  
“No, but three more crew members are down, so it’s looking more like they’ll cancel shooting today.”  
  
_“Three_ more?” Sherlock shook his head. “That’s at least half the crew now.”  
  
“They still don’t know if it’s food poisoning or a stomach bug.”  
  
Sherlock grimaced. “Think I’ll stay in here ‘til the coast is clear,” he rumbled.  
  
“So what are you up to?” John asked, indicating the laptop.  
  
“Oh, just messing around,” Sherlock answered casually.  
  
“You know, for someone who acts for a living, you are a fucking terrible liar,” John snorted.  
  
“What?!”  
  
“You’ve been reading that awful fanfiction again, haven’t you?”  
  
Sherlock hung his head in mock shame. “I just can’t help myself. It’s really quite flattering. You should…”  
  
John held up a hand. “No. Just NO. I still have that one you sent me last month burned on my retinas.”  
  
Sherlock grinned wickedly. “’One, Two, Three’ is one of my favorites,” he laughed.  
  
“I can’t see why. It’s not even like they have plots. It’s just… sex. Your character and mine and banging away.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “That’s not true. Some of the writing is brilliant. That one has that great line about Benedict frightening the shop clerk while Martin digs out his coupons. And there’s that absolutely fantastic AU one about Benedict and Martin meeting in Afghanistan.”  
  
“AU?”  
  
“Alternate universe.”  
  
“Well, it would have to be an alternate universe for most of that stuff to happen. To anyone. Honestly, if two real people shagged that much, that often, I’m sure they’d sprain something.”  
  
“And what about ‘Go the Fuck to Sleep’?”  
  
John burst out laughing. “All right. That one is just plain funny,” he admitted. “But _you_ … should not have internet access after a certain number of drinks.”  
  
“At least I don’t drunk _dial_ you,” Sherlock muttered, slightly chagrinned.  
  
“Well, drunk e-mailing obscene links is a close second,” John grumbled, not too harshly. “I suppose some of them are sort of… flattering.”  
  
“Especially if your character is a BAMF army captain slash doctor?”  
  
John grinned sheepishly. “Well, yeah, that one was really well-written and—” He stopped himself abruptly, his eyes opening in horror. Sherlock looked at him, eyes wide open in mock innocence, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “So, _anyway_ , I thought we could run lines,” John added hastily.  
  
Sherlock nodded slowly, biting his lip to stop the grin.  
  
“I know that scene’s been bugging you,” John struggled on. And then they made eye contact. And suddenly both were laughing, John in his light giggle and Sherlock chuckling deep in his chest. And then Sherlock relented.  
  
“Yeah, actually it has. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I was thinking of asking My…”  
  
“Not right now.”  
  
Considering that writer and co-actor Mycroft was one of the first ones hit with the stomach-whatever-it-was, yes, that was apparent. Sherlock glared at John. “I do know better,” he snapped before he realized that John was having a go at him. He rolled his eyes and smiled at his own gullibility.  
  
“So let’s just try getting through it as written,” John offered. Sherlock rose and moved to the tiny kitchenette.  
  
“Coffee?”  
  
“Yeah, ta.”  
  
In a few moments Sherlock handed him a steaming cup of coffee with milk, just the way he liked it, and placed his own on the desk. He slung himself back into his desk chair, crossing one long leg over the other. As John dragged his script from his jacket pocket, Sherlock leaned back across his desk to get his… and promptly knocked his coffee over it.  
  
“Fuck!” he exclaimed.  
  
“Oh, well then,” John commented drily, peacefully dropping his own script into his lap and crossing his arms across his chest to watch the fun. His co-worker had already risen abruptly, chair skittering out from behind him, and twirled around to grab the kitchen roll. Two soggy minutes later Sherlock ruefully surveyed the damage. The script was damp and curling and a lovely light beige. He shrugged.  
  
“Oh, it’ll dry by tomorrow.” He binned the towels and grinned at John. John giggled. “Well, now what? Other than another cuppa for me.” He sighed dramatically as he made himself another cup of coffee, then held it with infinite care in two hands.  
  
“Wanker,” John commented. “Come over here.”  
  
“Budge over,” Sherlock replied, barely allowing John to do so before settling himself on John’s left side. John held his script up in front of them, allowing Sherlock to grab the corner closest to him, then shifting slightly so they could both comfortably read from it. They always sat next to each other this way at script readings, anyway, and neither was bothered by having to sit closer. When shooting they spent most of their time together, “in each other’s pockets,” as some wag once noted. Sherlock in particular had a habit of looming up behind John, leaning his sharp chin on the shorter man’s shoulder, draping an arm over it, or sometimes even affectionately rubbing his head.  
  
For about fifteen minutes they struggled through a few pages of deduction-heavy dialogue. Sherlock found himself getting more and more frustrated as he consistently fumbled one particular line. He shook his head in exasperation.  
  
“Take a breath,” John commented.  
  
“Why am I not getting this? There’s something not right…” his voice dropped off as he studied the page intently. And then his uniquely-coloured eyes opened wide. “Oh, wait. That’s why. It’s your line that’s messing me up.”  
  
“Mmm?” John frowned and looked at the script, his eyebrows shooting up as he saw what Sherlock was getting at. “Oh, fuck. Yeah. Why would he ask that _before_ he gets to the bit about the label?”  
  
“That’s why I kept flubbing it. It didn’t make sense.”  
  
“Umm… does it ever?” John asked.  
  
“What? Yes, of course it does. I mean, I don’t get all of it, but it makes sense to the character.”  
  
“Ah. Well, ask Mycroft about it tomorrow.”  
  
“While I’m at it, I might finally ask him how he came up with such a ridiculous name for my character. I mean–Benedict Cumberbatch? Really? Who names their child that? I can barely say it sometimes.”  
  
John laughed. “Well, mine’s not much better. Martin Freeman—might as well be Martin Everyman. Mr. Average.”  
  
They both laughed, then bent together over the script again, this time getting through the rest of the scene flawlessly. John’s mobile buzzed.  
  
“Yeah? Yeah, okay. I’m with Sherlock. I’ll tell him.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him expectantly.  
  
“Shooting’s cancelled for the day.” Sherlock nodded. John’s mobile buzzed again.  
  
“Yeah?” He listened, his face changing from neutral to a slight frown. “Oh, no… it’s fine. You go… oh. Feel bet…” The caller had apparently rung off. He grimaced. “And… my driver is down for the count.”  
  
“Eew,” Sherlock commented. “But no problem. I’ve got my car today. I’ll run you home.”  
  
“Really? I don’t want to put you out.”  
  
“No, it’s no problem at all. Maybe we could grab some lunch on the way.”  
  
“Yeah, that’d be fine,” John nodded.  
  
“I’m not in any rush to get home anyway,” Sherlock added, quietly. John frowned. He knew that his co-worker’s relationship was on-again, off-again. From that, he guessed it was in an off-again phase. He gently pulled the script from Sherlock’s hand and put it on his own lap.  
  
“No?”  
  
Sherlock looked at him, his mouth tightening. “No.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” John offered sincerely.  
  
The younger man shrugged and shook his head, looking straight ahead. “It’s all right. We know it’s not working. We just neither of us seems to know when to give it up entirely, you know?” he said quietly. John nodded. And waited. And Sherlock put his elbows on his knees and let his head fall into his hands, covering his face. “And I have no bloody idea what to do about it,” he groaned.  
  
The hand on his back wasn’t terribly surprising. A comforting rubbing just between his shoulder blades. He didn’t move, his long curls falling forward, further obscuring his face. They sat like that for a few minutes.  
  
“Do you want to do something to fix it or do you want to do something to end it?” John finally asked gently.  
  
“I don’t know. I… that’s a lie. I do know.”  
  
Silence. The hand on his back now slid up to his neck and rubbed there, under the curls. Slipping under his shirt collar so he could feel the slightly calloused skin of John’s fingers on his own skin.  
  
“I think… I think it’s time to end it.”  
  
A thumb slid around the side of his neck to just behind his ear.  
  
Sherlock shivered.  
  
And then he chanced a glance sideways, through the curls. John was looking at him earnestly, nothing but sympathy on his sweet face. His thumb moved in gentle circles, brushing against the back of his earlobe. Sherlock wasn’t even entirely sure that John was cognizant of what he was doing.  
  
Sherlock was. Entirely cognizant. And growing more so.  
  
He decided that the best action would be to wait it out. To see if, perhaps, the blond man sitting thigh-to-thigh next to him on the small sofa would suddenly realize what his thumb was doing and maybe—he didn’t know—stop. Or something.  
  
And much to his surprise, he did. The thumb stopped its circles. Probably not for lack of trying, but because the hand to which it was attached was now moving across his neck, this time with the fingers in the lead. To his other ear. Four fingers anchored themselves just behind his left ear, the thumb stretched out across his neck, and then there was this wonderful _squeezing_ at the base of his skull.  
  
He groaned, quietly.  
  
“God, you’re tight,” John murmured. His surprisingly strong hand pressed and released, working out the knots, and Sherlock unabashedly bent his head down further. “You need a proper massage.”  
  
“’d love that,” Sherlock murmured indistinctly into his hands. “Haven’t had time.”  
  
“We’ve got time now,” John pointed out. “I’ll give you one.”  
  
Sherlock jerked his head up, turning it quickly to John, whose face was so open, so gentle.  
  
“Come on,” he continued. “We’ve got nothing else to do today. We can’t figure out these bloody lines without Mycroft; it’s too early for lunch. You need a proper rub down and I’ve got absolutely nothing better to do right now than to give you one.”  
  
“You’re bloody joking.”  
  
“Not even slightly. I have been deemed quite talented, as a matter of fact.”  
  
“I’d feel… silly,” Sherlock admitted.  
  
“Why? It’s no big deal. You’re so tense you’re practically vibrating.” John paused and looked more closely at Sherlock’s face. “Wait—are you embarrassed? Why?” he demanded, not bothering to wait for an answer. “Oh, come on. We spend twelve hours a day together—at least—when we’re filming. You know me. I just want to help.”  
  
Sherlock thought about it for a moment. And some time during that moment, he unconsciously reached up and rubbed his own shoulder. What harm? What harm could it do? He was certainly very tense. He did spend more time with John than with his partner during filming, which was, to be honest, part of the problem. They worked together, laughed together—even cried together once, when hearing about the untimely passing of one of the crew. He _trusted_ John more than he trusted his partner.  
  
“Yeah, what the hell,” he finally acquiesced.  
  
“All right,” John nodded. “Shirt off. On your stomach. On the bed.”  
  
“All right,” Sherlock mumbled, still not sure of himself. He rose from the sofa and shambled down the narrow caravan to the bed in the back. He rarely used that bed; the last time was when he was feeling a bit under the weather during a particularly trying day of shooting. Then he had laid down just to clear his head and ended up falling asleep for twenty minutes, waking to the gentle knock of the AD on the caravan door. He started to unbutton his shirt, his back to John.  
  
“You have any lotion?” John asked.  
  
“Yeah, in there.” He indicated the tiny bathroom with his elbow. He pulled arms out of his sleeves and tossed his shirt on the floor, then essentially fell forward onto the bed.  
  
John ducked into the tiny bathroom. He found a bottle of lotion on the floor of the shower, along with an assortment of shampoos and conditioners and all those oddments people ended up collecting in their showers.  
  
“Oh, herbal,” he commented. “Very nice.”  
  
“Ha ha,” Sherlock mumbled, his face buried in the duvet that covered the pillows. “I suppose you prefer mint and tea tree?”  
  
“Ah… yeah. Actually.”  
  
Sherlock chuckled. “I’ll remember that come holiday time.”  
  
“I’m sure you will,” John sighed, picturing several enormous gift baskets overflowing with mint and tea tree shower gel, lotion, shampoo…  
  
John walked into that portion of the caravan that could be dubiously dubbed the “bedroom,” pushing up his long sleeves. He slipped off his trainers, revealing tidy white socks. And then he just—stopped. And stared.  
  
Sherlock was a tall man. Not overly or unusually tall—Mycroft was taller—but he certainly topped his co-star by five inches or so. He was also not overly thin, but for the role he had deliberately dropped quite a few pounds. Not enough to be alarming, but he was certainly trim. Nothing out of the ordinary.  
  
So what had made John pause, his mouth falling slightly open?  
  
Perhaps it was his spectacular curls, dyed a dark chestnut, which spilled down his neck, contrasting beautifully with his ivory skin. Perhaps it was his long fingers, now curled on either side of his head. Maybe it was the particular arrangement of his limbs, which always seemed very loose-jointed and graceful.  
  
No. It was none of that. John saw those things all the time. Heck, there had been that absolutely hysterical day of filming that involved Sherlock sitting around in nothing but a sheet.  
  
It was the sight of the man’s jeans.  
  
Oh, God. Those jeans. They were—amazing. Skin tight, they rode low on his hips, then clung and flowed down his arse and legs like a denim river. They were long, the ends tattered around his bare heels.  
  
There was a thud.  
  
Sherlock picked up his head, turning it to look back over his shoulder. “Problem?” he asked.  
  
“Nuh… nope. Just dropped the lotion. Wet.” John bent quickly, hiding his face as he retrieved the bottle.  
  
Sherlock plopped his head back down onto the pillow. Hesitantly now, John approached. He climbed onto the bed and knelt next to Sherlock. Took a deep breath.  
  
“Umm…” he said, barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear him.  
  
“Mmm?” came the reply. Sherlock turned his head on the pillow so he could see John over his shoulder.  
  
“This might work better if I… ah… straddle you.” John could feel his face getting red. _Get ahold of yourself,_ he said silently. _This was your idea._  
  
Sherlock gave him a piercing look, waiting a few seconds before speaking. “Look, if you’ve changed your mind, that’s fine,” he rumbled.  
  
“What? No… no. It’s fine.” And John nodded decisively, once. He swung his leg over Sherlock’s hips, seating himself more or less on that magnificent bum ( _steady, John_ ), squared his shoulders, and shook his head. The lotion cap made a quiet pop and he put a generous amount into his right palm, closing the bottle and dropping it next to him on the bed. He rubbed his hands together briskly and carefully began to rub the back of Sherlock’s neck.  
  
He started in the middle, placing his fingers on either side of the man’s spine and his thumbs up along it. He worked up under the dark curls, concentrating on the feel of the vertebrae and muscle overlying them. Sherlock was silent.  
  
He moved his thumbs outward and then his fingers wrapped around the younger man’s shoulders. The muscles felt like rocks. “Holy shit, you’re tight,” he murmured.  
  
A muffled reply; unintelligible.  
  
“Too much time on the computer?” John observed wryly. No comment. He continued for several minutes, until he could feel the muscles soften. His thumbs moved down now, along the edges of Sherlock’s shoulder blades. There, too, the muscles were in knots.  
  
“You really should have this done professionally,” he commented. “How do you even turn your head?”  
  
Sherlock groaned, not even attempting words now. John smiled. He had the great Sherlock Holmes—the actor who had once delivered six straight pages of award-winning monologue in one flawless take—speechless.  
  
John continued in silence, pausing only to replenish the lotion on his hands. He had to admit, the herbal scent _was_ nice. He moved his hands up from the sharp shoulder blades to Sherlock’s upper arms, sliding them across the white skin. As his arms spread wider so he could reach either side, he automatically bent down lower, his chest just inches from Sherlock’s bare back. From there he could smell Sherlock’s hair. He used herbal shampoo or some sort of product, too, apparently. He started the tiniest bit when he realized what he was doing, but there was no reaction from Sherlock.  
  
_Stop that, you ridiculous man_ , he told himself sternly. _You have been much closer to him than this before and you never noticed how his hair_ smelled.  
  
_You haven’t been close quite like_ this, another part of his brain chimed in, unhelpfully.  
  
_Oh shut up,_ he told it.  
  
  
  
Shall I go on? It’s a “choose your own adventure!” Choice A: John stops what he’s doing and gets Sherlock a gift certificate for a professional massage. Choice B: John finishes the back rub and he and Sherlock go out to lunch and have a long, angsty conversation about relationships. Choice C: Greg Lestrade, who plays DI Rupert Graves, interrupts and they end up playing poker. Choice D: Oh, come on, you want Choice D!  
  



	2. Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is going to Hell.

In response to being told to _shut up_ , that unhelpful part of John’s brain seized control. He leaned over further, his hands sliding down Sherlock’s biceps to his elbows. His face was inches from the man’s neck. His mouth opened slightly and…  
  
 _Stop that this instant!_ shouted the still-rational-but-failing-rapidly part of John’s brain. He clamped his mouth shut with a snap. Drew himself up, his hands sliding up Sherlock’s arms to his shoulders again. He paused, unsure if he should continue. He wanted to continue. God, did he want to continue.  
  
Sherlock made a low sighing noise into the pillow. John chose to interpret it as encouragement. Of course he did. At least the part of his brain that had suddenly decided to go on some bizarre _Brokeback Mountain_ holiday did.  
  
He hesitantly started rubbing Sherlock’s shoulders again, a frown on his face. Sherlock, sensing the change, turned his head on the pillow and looked at John over his shoulder. His eyes were heavy lidded and his mouth–that amazing, eminently kissable mouth– _John, KNOCK IT OFF NOW_ –was slightly open.  
  
“Problem?” he muttered, clearly very relaxed. Without waiting for an answer, he turned his head back.  
  
“What? No, no problem!” John sputtered. To prove it, he squared his shoulders, shook his head, and started working in earnest on Sherlock’s left bicep with both hands. He pointedly ignored his breathing, which had increased in tempo exponentially.  
  
“I didn’t realize how tense I’ve been,” Sherlock admitted. “This feels… very nice.” With his face in the pillow, John felt the rumble of his deep voice more than heard it. It reverberated through Sherlock’s torso directly to John’s legs. To John’s thighs. To John’s inner thighs, to be exact, which were in exceedingly close contact with Sherlock’s back.  
  
John licked his lips. He glanced down at himself. His eyebrows shot up a bit. He looked up again, his eyes wide. He re-focused with great deliberateness on what his small but powerful hands were doing. Running them smoothly down Sherlock’s left bicep, one after the other, never completely losing contact with the man’s alabaster– _Okay if you don’t straighten out right now we are going to stop_ rational-brain John positively yelled at I’m-going-to-get-us-in-trouble-brain John. With a small noise of–was that triumph?–he successfully slid his hands across Sherlock’s shoulders and tackled his right bicep. Okay, thinking about biceps. Muscle groups. What made muscles so tight, anyway? He concentrated on this and other scientific wonderings. His breathing began to slow.  
  
And then Sherlock flinched.  
  
It happened in an instant: John saw the bruise on the white skin that he had inadvertently pressed on with his right hand. Sherlock, reacting to the pressure on the bruise, had automatically turned his head sharply to the right. “Oh, God, Sherlock, I’m sorry!” he blurted out. “Is it bad?” He bent over to examine the bruise.  
  
 _Be honest, John. You most certainly did not bend over to examine the bruise. You bent over to kiss that lovely, lovely mouth._  
  
Later he wondered which part of his brain had supplied him with that.  
  
Not very hard. He didn’t ever wonder very hard about it.  
  
Because in that same instant, he did just that. He kissed that lovely, lovely mouth. That amazing, fantastic, perfect Cupid ’s bow mouth. The mouth that he could quirk up into a rueful or wicked smile on either side, revealing the sexiest overbite on camera that decade…  
  
 _Oh, John, please!_ Begged heading-rapidly-toward-hell-brain John.  
  
“Oh, John…” murmured Sherlock against John’s lips.  
  
And everything hung in time and space for a fraction of a second.  
  
“Please.”  
  
And rational-brain John left his body, left the caravan, and possibly left the country, leaving only I-am-kissing-the-most-desirable-person-on-this-planet John.  
  
And kiss they did, John leaning awkwardly on one hand and Sherlock craning his neck, and then somehow John managed to lift himself up enough that Sherlock rolled smoothly onto his back under him, John instantly resettling himself across Sherlock’s–oh. My. A dim part of we-are-surely-going-to-hell-but-it’ll-be-worth-the-trip-brain John registered just exactly what was going on with Sherlock’s front. And his. And then all of his brains were washed away in an incredible incoming wave of Sherlock. Washed over and knocked down.  
  
They kissed like they had been doing it for ages. No awkward tipping of heads or fumbling for position. No tentative thrusts of tongues. It was all one shared motion of tongues and teeth and tasting and warmth and wetness. Breathing together. John’s free hand moved to the side of Sherlock’s head, gently cradling it, then running fingers through that magnificent hair. Sherlock’s hands reached up and grasped the back of John’s neck. They held each other in place, their lips parting from each other only to meet again. John’s teeth nibbled lightly at that luscious lower lip. Sherlock’s tongue teased John’s.  
  
Sherlock paused, pulling his head back the slightest bit.  
  
“Is this awkward, or all right?” he asked.  
  
“A little of both,” John admitted.  
  
And Sherlock’s lips captured his again because apparently that was exactly the answer he wanted. And his hands, those amazing long-fingered hands, began to move along John’s shirt collar, sliding under it to run along bare skin underneath.  
  
“Don’t need this on,” he growled, the vibrations making John shudder.  
  
In one swift motion, John sat up and flipped the shirt off, flinging it–somewhere. And slammed his now bare chest back down onto Sherlock’s. And groaned.  
  
Bare skin on bare skin. His mouth opened and Sherlock captured it with his own again while his fingers now dug happily and possessively into John’s back.  
  
And they began _rocking._  
  
Not thrusting. Not yet. But rocking, in tandem. John’s hips shifted forward a little, then back. Sherlock’s fingers tightened, loosened, tightened. Their kissing took up the rhythm. Sherlock sighed–a very quiet, very low exhalation–into John’s mouth. John breathed him in and sighed back.  
  
“Oh, God, John,” Sherlock whispered, resting his lips against John’s cheek, tickling it.  
  
“Mmm,” John responded.  
  
A pause. A deep breath.  
  
And then a very ancient, nameless, and often ignored part of John’s brain said _MORE._  
  
And John obliged.  
  
  
  
Choose-your-own-adventure: A) John stops what he’s doing, withdraws his hand from Sherlock’s jeans, gathers up the bits of his brain (one of which oddly appears on the set of their sitting room, curled up on the sofa with the Union Jack pillow), and grabs a cab home; B) They are interrupted by guest star Irene Adler, who stops in and unfortunately exposes them both to what turns out to be a stomach bug and Sherlock uses up the rest of his kitchen roll; C) Sherlock’s mobile rings and long story short he and his partner reconcile; or D) Oh come on, pick D!  
  



	3. Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is an angel.

/>

And the rocking became thrusting.  
  
And the quiet sighing became deep moans and gasps.  
  
And then John’s strong fingers reached down and unzipped those remarkable jeans…  
  
And any and all parts of his brain just STOPPED.  
  
Sherlock wasn’t wearing pants.  
  
No boxers. No briefs. No boxer briefs. Not even Speedos. NO PANTS.  
  
He felt that smile curl against his cheek. The wicked one.  
  
“Ahhhh,” he essentially drooled in response. His mouth stayed open. Sherlock captured it with his own again, briefly, then released it to whisper in John’s ear. Those lips, now warm and pink, brushed the shell of his ear, and once again John felt more than heard his words. Word. One word.  
  
“Surprise.”  
  
John’s rational brain, having enjoyed a transatlantic flight, waved airily at him from somewhere in Boston. Despite this, summoning up all of what was left in his skull, John responded to Sherlock brilliantly.  
  
“Umm…”  
  
Or not so brilliantly, but Sherlock didn’t seem to have any strenuous objections. As John’s hands fell from Sherlock’s jeans to his sides, Sherlock slid his own hands down John’s back and slipped his long fingers under John’s waistband.  
  
“And let’s see what my fine co-worker is sporting today,” he grinned. “Ah! The eminently practical briefs. Are they white?”  
  
“Uh…”  
  
“Shall I find out?” Fingers were yanked out of waistband and were nimbly undoing his button. Finger and thumb on the zip’s pull tab. A pause as Sherlock looked up into John’s face. Into his eyes. The playful expression on his face was replaced with a serious one. “Okay?” he asked quietly. John nodded, not trusting his voice.  
  
That zip was the loudest thing John had ever heard.  
  
And then rustling of fabric.  
  
And then John sighed, letting out the breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding.  
  
John shut his eyes, focusing on the feeling of those long fingers as they gently, delicately, slid inside his jeans. Brushed against him. Palmed him. Through the thin fabric of his pants, he could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s hand.  
  
“Mmm. Blue,” Sherlock murmured. “They look nice like that.”  
  
“Like… what?” John muttered.  
  
“Full.”  
  
John opened his eyes to see that Sherlock was staring quite pointedly at what he was rubbing.  
  
“In fact,” the dark-haired man continued, his voice positively purring, “they seem to be getting rather tight. Should I do something about that?”  
  
John nodded, now staring down at himself. White fingers slid across fabric and flesh and he found himself being gently released.  
  
“Oh, John,” Sherlock whispered. “You’re gorgeous.” Fingers curled around him. And carefully, thoughtfully, began to stroke.  
  
“Oh, God,” John sighed. He found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of that lovely, graceful hand as it moved slowly down and then gloriously back up his cock. He felt tingles of pleasure running up his back and down his legs.  
  
“Off. Take these off,” Sherlock breathed, impatiently pulling at John’s pants and jeans. Elegance and teasing were sliding off him and being replaced by eagerness and wanting. He sat up as far as he could under John, both hands pulling at John’s clothing. “MORE,” he groaned.  
  
“Hang… hang on,” John sputtered, laughing. He quickly swung his leg off Sherlock and jumped off the bed, feeling strangled as his briefs’ waistband slid back up almost into place. Fumbling, he managed to slide jeans, pants, and socks off while leaning back against the bed. He spun around.  
  
And Sherlock gracefully lifted up his hips and slid his open jeans off in one beautiful move, sinking back down onto the mattress. He stretched, the unbroken expanse of ivory skin arresting John’s eyes. “Come here,” he commanded, reaching out a hand.  
  
John complied. Straddling Sherlock once again. This time, no hesitation. Sherlock eagerly wrapped the fingers of his left hand around John’s cock. The tingles that had been travelling up John’s back continued where they had left off. John made a sort of strangled not-quite-a-sigh-not-quite-a-groan sound in the back of his throat. His hands, limp on either side of him, suddenly grabbed at the duvet. He stared down, enjoying not just the amazing feeling but the amazing sight of white fingers wrapped around his—what color would you call that?—sort-of-pink-but-headed-toward-purple cock. He licked his lips and then bit the lower one lightly.  
  
Sherlock wasn’t looking at what his own hand was doing. Instead, he was watching John’s face–the heavy-lidded eyes, the adorable nose, the tip of that sweet tongue–and he smiled another wicked smile. John’s cock was smooth and hard and warm in his palm. He moved his hand slowly; firmly.  
  
John watched and groaned and couldn’t decide if he liked it better when Sherlock’s hand was near the base or when it slid up and the thumb slid across the slit there. And then he realized that there, right next to all this fantastic activity, was… oh. Oh God. It was. It was Sherlock’s…  
  
As glorious and beautiful as the rest of him, and did he think that he would ever think about another man’s cock like that? No, of course not. Of course he hadn’t. He, John Watson, wasn’t gay.  
  
_So if we’re not gay, what exactly are we doing?_ his mess-us-up-royally brain demanded. _Because it’s certainly_ not gay— _no, not one bit—to have your cock in another man’s hand and think it was the most marvelous thing you’ve ever felt and to want to have his cock in your hand—_  
  
Oh. Right.  
  
Maybe he should do something about that.  
  
And John somehow found his left hand leaving its grip on the duvet. Reaching across his own thigh. Past Sherlock’s thigh. And onto Sherlock’s stomach. And then down, following the sharply delineated hipbone. Down further. And paused.  
  
Sherlock paused too. “All right?” he asked gently.  
  
“I’ve never…” John stammered, licking his lips and not looking up.  
  
“I know. It’s all right. You don’t have to… oh!”  
  
John had gotten over his nervousness.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes opened wide and his mouth fell open. He had felt John’s hand before. Of course he had. Shaking hands when they first met. Holding hands during that rather infamous running-through-London-at-night-while-handcuffed scene. The neck rub. The massage–how long ago was that? Seemed like years. But this. Strong hand. Small. Calloused. Warm. No, not warm. Hot. And steady. Sure. Like instead of being the first time, John had done this hundreds of times.  
  
Because, John later reflected, he _had_ done this hundreds of times. Just not to another bloke. But at that moment, he wasn’t really thinking about it. He was just… _just. He was making Sherlock smile. And hum. And Sherlock was making _him__ hum. Or vibrate.  
  
Damp. Sherlock felt it on John as his thumb continued to slide and slip and circle and now his smile broke open into a grin.  
  
John was gorgeous. Every inch of him. Compact. Solid. A dusting of hair on his chest. Skin a warmer shade than Sherlock’s. Cheeks flushed now. Dark eyes lowered, concentrating on what he was holding. What he was stroking. What he was squeezing and rubbing and oh John… MORE.  
  
Sherlock’s own hand paused. His middle finger flicked lightly across the tip of John’s cock, across the dampness. And then he withdrew his hand.  
  
John paused his own hand, not removing it from Sherlock’s cock while watching in fascination as Sherlock slowly, deliberately, drew his hand up his own body. Across his own chest and up his own neck. To his chin. To his mouth. To that so-perfect-it-should-be-captured-by-da-Vinci mouth. And his rose-blushed tongue slid out from between those lips. And he _licked._  
  
John made an odd sort of whining sound in his throat. An odd sort of _jealous_ sound. Because he wanted to be that finger. Oh, God, he wanted to be that finger.  
  
And Sherlock gently took John’s free hand into his own. Pulled it up. Mouth open. Teeth just exposed. A small, wicked smile. And then he took John’s thumb into his perfect mouth, and he _sucked._  
  
John felt slightly dizzy.  
  
Warm, wet tongue wrapped around his thumb. Lips encircled the base of it. John’s palm and fingers stretched across Sherlock’s cheek, cradling it. John moaned. Sherlock responded in kind, the vibrations of his voice shooting straight up John’s arm. John shuddered, speechless, his hand on Sherlock’s cock stilling.  
  
And then Sherlock gently slid John’s hand away, scraping the pad of his thumb with his teeth and biting—so so lightly. John whimpered.  
  
Sherlock pulled himself up a bit, sliding himself out from under John to sit up against the headboard. “Turn around,” Sherlock commanded, spreading his legs. “Lean back.”  
  
John did so, a bit hesitantly, but then Sherlock reached for his hips and drew him back. John nestled himself between the long, white legs, leaning back onto Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s chest, peppering the back of his neck and his right ear with light kisses and then nibbling just the tiniest bit.  
  
Sherlock’s skin was gloriously warm where it met John’s. The smell of the herbal lotion surrounded him. He was very much aware of everything—Sherlock’s warmth, his odor, the sound of his breathing. And yes, John was very much aware of what was pressing into the flesh of his bum. He arched his back, increasing the contact. Sherlock responded by groaning and then licking his ear.  
  
And then one of the arms around his chest loosened. Sherlock’s right hand slid down, across John’s belly. It rested for a second at the junction between his leg and his hip. “I think that _this_ is the sexiest part of the body,” Sherlock purred into his ear, pressing his large palm into the slight hollow.  
  
“Ah…ck” John’s I-used-to-have-a-decent-grasp-of-the-English-language brain responded.  
  
“And now…” Sherlock murmured. His hand slid over. Grasped—gently. Wrapped fingers and thumb around. And began to make John sweat.  
  
Rhythm. Beats. Anything John ever knew, ever was aware of, was being replaced by this one thing. Sherlock’s hand on his cock, pulling, beat by beat. John’s own body took up the rhythm, thrusting up into Sherlock’s hand and then pushing back against the cock there pressed there.  
  
Sherlock tipped his head forward now and sank teeth into John’s neck, sucking at the skin with the same, driving beat. John’s eyes were shut and his mouth was open as he took deep breaths in the same rhythm.  
  
And then that glorious-angels-be-praised mouth nuzzled against the back of his head. And it spoke.  
  
“Oh, God, John. You smell so incredible. You FEEL so incredible.” His voice rumbled through John’s head and back.  
  
“And so nice and wet,” it added, wickedly.  
  
As the part of his brain that operated his center of speech had apparently gone out for a latte, John nodded wordlessly.  
  
And Sherlock picked up the pace.  
  
“That’s it,” he murmured. John couldn’t see him, of course, but somehow he knew how Sherlock looked. His eyes were shut and his mouth was open and he was an angel, his cheek pressed against John’s hair.  
  
John’s own mouth was open. He was still breathing, and there was little more anyone could have expected him to do at that moment.  
  
And the pace increased again. John pushed back, his head rolling sideways to be cradled on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s head bent down, his cheek pressing against John’s as he continued to stroke. John was getting impossibly hard.  
  
And then Sherlock’s pace slowed. “No. Not yet. There’s MORE,” he murmured into John’s ear, thoughtfully adding the tip of his tongue just on the earlobe.  
  
And gently, slowly, he stopped stroking and John felt his pelvis thrust forward, seeking the lost rhythm.  
  
“Here…” Sherlock murmured. He slid ever so carefully out from behind John, leaning him back where he had been. John was now propped up against the headboard, his legs straight in front of him. Sherlock turned and faced him, upright on his knees. John found that his legs were now captured by Sherlock’s as the ivory pillars straddled him. And he stared, almost weeping, as Sherlock gently, carefully wrapped those long fingers around _himself._ And, slowly—almost thoughtfully—began to wank.  
  
This was not playful. This was slow and deliberate and possibly the hottest thing John had ever seen in his entire life. John exhaled through his mouth, his jaw slack.  
  
And his rational brain purchased a ticket for California.  
  
Because at that moment, he looked up at Sherlock’s face.  
  
It _was_ the face of an angel. Eyes shut, lips slightly parted, tip of tongue barely showing behind teeth. Pale skin flushed now. Chestnut curls falling in an impossible tangle, framing those not-to-be-believed cheekbones.  
  
John’s eyes moved down. Neck flushed, and chest. Smooth shoulders and chest. And to his arms. Arm. One arm. One hand. Down to what that one hand was doing. Pace increasing now.  
  
Down to what that hand held. Glorious. Beautiful. A groan escaped Sherlock’s lips. The tip was just beginning to glisten—how had he held out this long? Amazing. Fantastic. He stared as the slender hips thrust forward into his hand as it slid, now swiftly, down and back up his shaft. His head tipped back for a second, then abruptly snapped forward again.  
  
And Sherlock opened his eyes and he opened his mouth and a growl issued from it and the growl formed words one word John heard one word and it rolled and crashed and wrapped around him like waves like darkness like clouds like light. And the word was  
  
MORE  
  
John had no words. Speech had been replaced entirely with feeling.  
  
And Sherlock dropped, folding himself up as he pushed John’s legs apart; arranging himself between John’s legs, his legs tucked under himself, his long torso and neck stretched out. He brought his right arm in. Down.  
  
“Mmph,” John squeaked as fingers wrapped around him again. His eyes shut.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said suddenly, earnestly. “Look at me.”  
  
John opened his eyes and looked down, arrested by the vision of Sherlock’s eyes—those queer, light, _alien_ eyes—fixed on his face.  
  
“John… I want… oh God I want to do this. Is this okay?” His voice was desperate.  
  
“Oh God yes. Yes, PLEASE.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, bent his head down, and then John thought that perhaps the rational part of his brain was relocating to New Zealand and never coming back. Because he was watching the tip of his cock—HIS cock—John-fucking-Watson’s cock—disappear into the most fuckable mouth in recorded history.  
  
And then the sensation hit him.  
  
Whining. Groaning. Gasping. Impossible sounds were being ripped out of John’s mouth from somewhere in the center of his body. Or possibly the center of the universe. Was he the center of the universe, then?  
  
Impossibly hot. Impossibly wet. Tongue wrapped around the head of his cock. Hand still holding it, stroking it, squeezing it. Sliding down and little finger tickling his balls.  
  
And then Sherlock lifted up a bit on his legs, adjusted the angle of his head so it was positioned precisely over John’s incredibly rigid organ, and that mouth (which was possibly the entrance to heaven or maybe hell; John would be hard pressed to discern the difference at the moment) just— _engulfed_ him.  
  
“Oh my God! Fuck!” John was shouting. John knew that he was shouting. John didn’t actually _care_ that he was shouting.  
  
And then his body somehow split up into several pieces. His left hand, completely of its own accord, shoved into Sherlock’s curls. His right hand grasped the duvet so hard he could feel threads pop. His toes curled and his spine arched up and into that mouth. That _mouth._ And his eyes were wide open now, staring. Staring at the most glorious thing he had ever seen. His cock sliding smoothly in and out of the most fuckable mouth that had possibly ever existed.  
  
And then his own tongue joined in the fun, in its own way, as his ability to speak returned with a suddenness that startled him, the words pouring out of him like the sweat that was now running down his chest.  
  
“Oh my God Sherlock keep doing that that THAT o fuck o God I want to fuck your mouth I’ve wanted to do this for ages o God your tongue is so hot o right there suck it SUCK IT o God your fingers I’m so hard I can’t breathe o fuck Sherlock I’m close o God Sherlock that’s it I’m going to come I’m going to…”  
  
And Sherlock removed his glorious lips from John’s cock, replacing them with his lovely, long fingers, and swept up John in a tidal wave of sensation as he murmured, his lips brushing the head.  
  
“That’s it come for me for _me_ feel my hand feel my lips _come for me you beautiful man…”_  
  
And John’s rational brain boarded a rocket and escaped the earth’s gravitational pull.  
  
And Sherlock’s mouth captured the head of his cock again.  
  
And John came into an angel’s mouth.  
  
Amazingly hot viscous liquid pulsed out once, twice, three, FOUR times. Shudders travelled up his spine to the top of his head and down to the bottoms of his feet. He moaned so loudly he felt it echo in the small caravan.  
  
And he fell back against the headboard behind him.  
  
And he felt something run down the sides of his face. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was sweat or tears. He didn’t actually care.  
  
And the lovely, delicate fingers carefully withdrew. He gasped, sensitive.  
  
Warm, soft lips pressed against his temple. “John,” the voice murmured.  
  
John had no words. No thoughts. Not even a complete awareness of his body. He was floating.  
  
Floating. Drifting. Wafting slowly back down to earth like the last leaf of autumn. He landed gently, softly, back in his own body.  
  
His own body. _His_ body. John Watson’s body. Was resting… was resting under…  
  
“Mmm. Nice?” Sherlock murmured into his ear.  
  
John nodded. He felt his body gradually coming back to life. He felt the duvet under his legs and bum. He felt Sherlock’s chest against his. He felt warm breath on his ear. He felt… oh.  
  
Sherlock shifted slightly on top of him.  
  
“Oh,” John said aloud.  
  
“Oh?” Sherlock echoed, brushing his hand down John’s arm.  
  
The part of John’s brain responsible for speech, having cleared its throat without benefit of punctuation, was now apparently surfing the entire universe as he was pounded by hundreds of images, thoughts, feelings—no words. Not one word. John could not think of a single word to say to express his— _awareness_ —of Sherlock. Of Sherlock’s body. Of a particular part of Sherlock’s body, and the condition in which it was.  
  
And finally—thankfully—the part of John’s brain that controlled his muscles stepped in. _This is not a time for talking_ , it said sternly. _This is a time for action_.  
  
And action it took.  
  
  
  
Choose-your-own-adventure: A) John, deeply ashamed of what they have done, takes action by getting out of his contract and is replaced by someone named Jude Law; B) They are interrupted by co-star Sally Donovan, who, unlike her character Sgt Vinette Robinson, has a huge crush on Sherlock; C) John’s mobile rings and it’s actress Molly Hooper, wanting to share some gossip; or can you believe there’s MORE if you pick D?  
  



	4. Center of the Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Might there be...?

John pushed gently on Sherlock’s chest and sat up. Slid out from under him. With gentle pressure on his shoulders, turned him onto his back, into the same position he had just been in. Sherlock looked at him intently, something like adoration in his eyes.  
  
John knelt between Sherlock’s legs, facing him. His eyes were wide open. He looked intently into the grey/blue/silver/green/gold eyes. He leaned forward, his hands on the younger man’s shoulders, and he was kissing him on his luscious mouth before Sherlock could say anything.  
  
Sherlock responded eagerly, pushing his head forward, his tongue meeting John’s almost fiercely. He brought up his arms and his fingers curled around the sides of John’s head, now cradling his face.  
  
But John didn’t stay in place long. He gently, almost hesitantly, pulled his mouth away, reflecting briefly on what he was tasting on those beautiful lips. Ducked his head down. Kissed Sherlock’s neck. The protest that Sherlock had almost voiced at the withdrawal of John’s lips was instantly halted and replaced with a gentle exhalation instead.  
  
And John continued to move. He bent further and ran his tongue along Sherlock’s collarbone. The exhalation became a deep sigh.  
  
And further. His lips now rested on Sherlock’s sternum and he hummed into it. The sigh slid into a slight “ah.”  
  
And across now. The very tip of John’s very talented tongue barely touched Sherlock’s right nipple. And then his head dipped down and the tongue tip was replaced by his lips, and then between his lips came his tongue again, this time hot and wet, and the “ah” turned into a moan.  
  
John paused there for a bit, enjoying the feel of Sherlock’s erect nipple in his mouth, the trembling of his body, and the thrust—  
  
Sherlock’s spine arched and his hips moved up, away from the mattress.  
  
John grinned as he released the nipple and continued his journey.  
  
The skin over Sherlock’s ribs was tight and salty. His stomach was taut and warm.  
  
And his belly button—  
  
Well, John wanted to stay a week just exploring that, and his hips, and that incredible dip—that hollow just in front of his hip bone, and…  
  
There it was.  
  
He had known where he was headed and he knew what he had planned to do. Truly, he did. He _wanted_ to do this. For Sherlock. Because he was still tingling from what Sherlock had done for him.  
  
And sometimes there don’t need to be words, or thoughts, and he finally stopped thinking and just _did_ it.   
  
And Sherlock groaned.  
  
And he continued to do it, getting used to what he was doing. Figuring out how it worked. How he worked. How he could work it. How to make it hot and wet and tight.  
  
And now Sherlock’s hands gripped the duvet and his back arched and his hips rose up to meet John’s lips and his voice became rough as his breathing got jagged; uneven. He squirmed, pressing upward.  
  
“Oh God John that’s so good oh right there fuck fuck me your mouth is so hot oh God so wet yes this is what I wanted what I want keep going please keep going oh please yes like that just like that MORE John don’t stop don’t slow down johnimgoingtocome—”  
  
And John was fairly certain once again that he was the center of the universe because he could feel it slow down and stop as Sherlock pumped into his mouth and he didn’t even think about it. It just was. And he was. And they were. And it was glorious.  
  
Sherlock was breathing. He was fairly certain of it. Somewhat. Yes, that’s what he was doing. Great, ragged breaths. Panting, really. He tried to close his mouth but that stopped the panting and his brain objected somewhat to the lessening of oxygen, so his mouth fell open again. And then breathing became a challenge again because there was something in the way. Something warm and salty and—oh!  
  
And breathing became secondary to kissing John back with every bit of strength he had left.  
  
Which wasn’t much. He reached out and drew John down onto him. His chest and stomach were warm and slightly sticky with sweat and Sherlock never wanted to feel anything else against his own chest; against his stomach.  
  
Their kisses became long, soft, drawn out. Sleepy. Languid. Sherlock’s long fingers ran through John’s short hair. He pulled his head back a bit and gently kissed the tip of John’s nose.  
  
John just looked at him, speechless. Not a single thought in his head. No, that wasn’t true, the fluffy, floaty thing that used to be his brain told him. There was _one_ thought in it.  
  
  
  


*Sherlock*

 

 

And that was the entire world. The entire universe. He was no longer the center of his own universe. He was a satellite orbiting a luminous body.

 

 

_Epilogue_

Wordlessly, clothing was retrieved from various locations around the caravan. John took a shower first, quickly, while Sherlock checked his messages, and then pulled clothing on over still-wet skin while Sherlock rinsed off, pulled on his jeans and shirt, and somewhat dazedly shoved his bare feet into an ancient pair of loafers.

He pulled on a jacket, closed his laptop and tucked it under his arm, and picked up his keys. John looked up at him from the sofa, his coat already on.

“Sherlock…” he said hesitantly.

“Lunch?” Sherlock’s voice was too bright; strained.

John’s mouth fell open for a second before he remembered that he should be saying something. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, that’s fine.” He rose on trembling legs and followed Sherlock out of the caravan, pausing but not turning back as Sherlock locked it.

They walked in silence to Sherlock’s car. They got in. Sherlock started the motor, backed out, shifted, and started driving.

“Sherlock…” he started.

“John…” Sherlock started at the exact same time.

They both laughed, awkwardly at first.

And then it wasn’t so awkward.

And then it was delightful.

And then it was brilliant.

John giggled his high-pitched giggle and Sherlock chuckled his deep-throated chuckle until they were both rather breathless. And then, as Sherlock pulled onto the motorway, it slowed. And then it stopped.

And Sherlock cleared his throat a bit and John looked at him; at his angelic face as he concentrated on traffic.

“John…” he offered, hesitantly, changing lanes.

“Yes?” John said faintly.

“I. Want. MORE.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fanfics referenced: “One, Two, Three” by pennydreadful, “Two Two One Bravo Baker” by abundantlyqueer, and “Go the Fuck to Sleep, Sherlock” by primroseshows. Thank you for the inspiration and for ruining my life.


End file.
